Theirs
by namelesspanda
Summary: Chapter 1 is a fluffy one-shot. M/M post-wedding and onwards. 1920 through 1946. Sybil's namesake is...well...like Sybil in some ways, only a bit brattier. Chapters 2 and 3 follow what happens when Sybil is like Sybil and runs off, and Chapter 4 continues the family fun.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well, this is fluff—far from my usual angsty stories. The last bit may or may not be the start of an interesting plot…maybe….Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

May 1920

"…and here we are," said Matthew softly, pushing open the door to the room—their room—and allowing her to go through first, trying not to appear nervous. She stepped primly over the threshold.

What was it she had once said? _Smart people sleep in separate bedrooms._ Well, how terribly unintelligent of her, Mary thought as she glanced about.

There was a plain but elegant bed…theirs. A large window with cheerful curtains at the far end of the room. Bright, so different from her darkened red bedroom at the abbey. The one thing that was the same was her vanity, which was tucked in a corner.

"What is it?" Matthew asked, concerned, as she pressed a hand to her mouth and frowned, her gaze sweeping the room.

"It's only…I can't quite believe it's...ours," she said quietly, hesitating.

"Mary…" He took her hands in his and gazed at her earnestly. "This…here"—he glanced at the bed, the vanity—"it's yours. All of it. I can always sleep in my dressing room, if—"

"No." She shook her head. "Absolutely not. This is ours."

* * *

September 1922

"You're a Mama now," he whispered, as he peered over her shoulder at the small bundle in her arms.

"Don't tell me things I already know," Mary said, and smiled as he protectively tucked the baby's blankets tighter—yet again. "I never thought I'd be, I'm not sure I quite believe it," she reflected, drowsily patting her husband on the arm and adding, "she's quiet. She's takes after you."

"She takes after both of us," he corrected.

"You'll wake her," she chided quietly, but gave them both a soft smile, sighing. "I'm much too tired for this."

"Are you?" Matthew gently removed their daughter from where she had been snuggled against Mary, and held her with cautious care. "You rest, then. You've had a long day, Mary." He kissed his wife's forehead and sat still for a moment, the little girl supported near-awkwardly in his arms as he stared out the window. The sun was setting behind the shadows of trees, illuminating the dark silhouette of the abbey in the distance.

"You mean a great deal, you know," he said seriously, turning his gaze to the small face that was so like his and yet so like Mary's. "A very—great deal—"

"She doesn't understand a _word_ you're saying, Matthew," Mary murmured sleepily, eyes still shut.

"Don't listen to your Mama," he said in a low voice, and glanced almost guiltily at his wife. The baby gave a delicate snort.

* * *

February 1935

"Do you remember," said the Countess of Grantham, pausing by a small table, "there used to be a phonograph there." The chauffeur shuffled past with a few more trunks, which were deposited inside the front hall of Mary's childhood home. She sighed. "I suppose it's ours now," she said sadly, as she thumbed through some of the old square packages on the tabletop.

"Did you find any of the old ones?" Matthew asked fondly, as she stared at one of the discs.

"'Zip Goes A Million', or something," she murmured, placing it back on the table.

"Oh." He stood in solemn silence for a moment, before walking brusquely through the grand doors and staring out at the landscape. Mary followed hesitantly.

"Matthew? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Were you really going to America?" he said abruptly. "Before…"

"I…" she paused. "I don't think I really would have."

The cold air brushed against their faces and Matthew smiled a bit as the snow crunched under his shoes. "I had to ask you properly, didn't I?"

"Of course." Mary felt her heart flutter as their eyes met.

"No matter if my trousers were completely ruined?"

"_That_ is _repulsive_!" their younger daughter exclaimed, clattering down the stairs with an indignant scowl that made her face look a bit older than her eleven years. Matthew sheepishly turned to face her, not meeting her disgusted stare. "Well, now I feel like a nuisance, thank you."

"Why must you be so dramatic, Sybil?" Mary said, smoothing the silk of her skirt.

Sybil huffed impatiently. "Might I go down to the kitchens now? I'd really like to see," she said in a rush, and then fled down the hall as fast as she could.

* * *

November 1943

"Are you quite, quite sure?" Mary demanded.

Her eldest daughter nodded gravely. "I'm sure, Mama."

"But—a farmer's son? You can't be serious." She shook her head disbelievingly. "Your sister couldn't possibly be so foolish, she's—"

"You _can't_ tell her I told you," Elisabeth pleaded. "She's made up her mind, Mama. She's going tonight to Gretna Green, and that's the only reason I told you that—"

"Tonight?" Mary stood up, horrified, and whirled on her daughter. "You never thought to mention this to me before?" she said icily.

"I never thought she'd go through with it!" retorted Elisabeth, spreading her arms helplessly. "I thought there was a chance she might come to her senses before—"

"Did you tell your Papa?" Mary asked, pacing nervously in front of her mirror.

"Should I have?"

"No." She paused and then ordered, "find Mrs. Bates. I do hope you remember how to drive the car."

"What are you trying to do?" Elisabeth asked, bewildered. "Mama, I've hardly _tried_ to drive, I can't just—"

"We're getting Sybil back," Mary said grimly, but just then the door creaked open and she froze.

"What's happened?" said Matthew curiously. Both women cast their brown eyes hastily to the floor, trying to keep their expressions brightly neutral. "What is it? Mary—"

Elisabeth sighed and closed her eyes briefly in resignation. "Mama…"

"He doesn't want to hear it," Mary told her dismissively, attempting to wave Matthew through the door. "It's utter foolishness—"

"Even so…" Matthew pressed, his voice still kind. "Please tell me." There was a silence as he glanced expectantly between the two of them. Mary twisted her necklace between her fingers, and Elisabeth absentmindedly reached for the small toy dog that always sat next to her parents' bed. The clock made faint ticking noises as several seconds passed.

"Sybil," Mary said finally through clenched teeth, "is a rather fitting name for our daughter, wouldn't you say?"

* * *

**Yes, I did have one of their daughters be called Sybil :) Review, please…I love all feedback. Including constructive criticism, as always. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This extends the last almost-drabble from "Theirs". I've copied it here as a recap.**

* * *

_November 1943_

"_Are you quite, quite sure?" Mary demanded._

_Her eldest daughter nodded gravely. "I'm sure, Mama."_

"_But—a farmer's son? You can't be serious." She shook her head disbelievingly. "Your sister couldn't possibly be so foolish, she's—"_

"_You can't tell her I told you," Elisabeth pleaded. "She's made up her mind, Mama. She's going tonight to Gretna Green, and that's the only reason I told you that—"_

"_Tonight?" Mary stood up, horrified, and whirled on her daughter. "You never thought to mention this to me before?" she said icily. _

"_I never thought she'd go through with it!" retorted Elisabeth, spreading her arms helplessly. "I thought there was a chance she might come to her senses before—"_

"_Did you tell your Papa?" Mary asked, pacing nervously in front of her mirror._

"_Should I have?"_

"_No." She paused and then ordered, "find Mrs. Bates. I do hope you remember how to drive the car."_

"_What are you trying to do?" Elisabeth asked, bewildered. "Mama, I've hardly tried to drive, I can't just—"_

"_We're getting Sybil back," Mary said grimly, but just then the door creaked open and she froze._

"_What's happened?" said Matthew curiously. Both women cast their brown eyes hastily to the floor, trying to keep their expressions brightly neutral. "What is it? Mary—"_

_Elisabeth sighed and closed her eyes briefly in resignation. "Mama…"_

"_He doesn't want to hear it," Mary told her dismissively, attempting to wave Matthew through the door. "It's utter foolishness—"_

"_Even so…" Matthew pressed, his voice still kind. "Please tell me." There was a silence as he glanced expectantly between the two of them. Mary twisted her necklace between her fingers, and Elisabeth absentmindedly reached for the small toy dog that always sat next to her parents' bed. The clock made faint ticking noises as several seconds passed._

"_Sybil," Mary said finally through clenched teeth, "is a rather fitting name for our daughter, wouldn't you say?"_

"Mary—what—?"

"She's gone and run off," she said in a near whisper.

"Run off?" His brow wrinkled, and Elisabeth suppressed a sarcastic laugh.

"With a farmer, Papa," she explained coolly, and watched as his mouth fell open in surprise.

"Mary—" He turned to his wife, who nodded simply. His eyes widened. "But—what about that banker, in London? And I thought she was rather fond of the heir to—"

"I never thought of you as one to approve of marriage for money," Mary said wryly, and he shook his head almost instinctively.

"Of course not, but—how would she know it was—why would she—?"

"The need for excitement, I suppose," their older daughter interjected, placing the toy dog back on the side-table. "Or maybe something in him, that she—"

"I hope you aren't speaking from experience," Mary said stiffly, stricken.

"I'm not!" Elisabeth retorted. "I'm just trying to—I don't know, Mama…"

"But why must she run off like a thief in the night?" Mary demanded, and was immediately met with incredulous looks from her husband and daughter.

"I may not approve, but Mary…"—Matthew reached for her hand—"my dear, I don't think—"

"—you'd take it any better than you are now," Elisabeth finished, smiling faintly at her parents' clasped hands. "Well, the fact is, I don't think any of us are willing to let her _run off_ into the sunset with whoever this may be."

"No, certainly not," her mother agreed indignantly. "Well, now that your Papa knows…you won't have to drive, at least."

* * *

"Watch for the motor," Mary reminded as their blue car bumped along the edge of the road. She peered out from the front window and frowned. "Are you perfectly sure she didn't mention who this…_farmer's son_ was, specifically?"

"She wouldn't say," Elisabeth repeated from the back seat.

"Of course," Mary said under her breath. "Of course she'd never…she's _Sybil_, for God's sake."

"I haven't noticed," said Matthew cautiously, "any particular…interest of hers in farm labouring."

"Well, you weren't nearly this disapproving when my sister tried farming," his wife replied, an edge of sarcasm in her voice. "I seem to remember you told me not to be so harsh."

"Aunt Sybil tried farming?" asked Elisabeth, confused.

"No," Mary answered curtly.

"Edith," Matthew clarified, barely pausing at a split before sending the car flying down the road.

"_What?_"

"And Edith is not my daughter," he continued, gaze focused on the dark road. "And I doubt she was planning on running off with John Drake, he was married."

Elisabeth shook her head dazedly. "But—"

"I hardly think it's unreasonable to disapprove."

"No, it isn't." Mary turned to the back seat. "Anna—_has_ she been going down to the farms quite so often?" Anna nodded tightly.

"I always thought that she'd…just taken to the work, milady."

"She obviously didn't," Elisabeth noted sharply. "I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't work a single hour the whole time she was—"

"Enough," Mary scolded.

"Is that the motor?" Anna asked at that moment, and their car skidded to a stop in front of a small building.

"The Swan Inn," Mary murmured, glancing grimly at Anna. "I suppose they think alike." Countess and lady's maid alike were silent as they remembered what happened to the elder Sybil.

"Shall I go up, Mama?" Elisabeth said tentatively, reaching to open the car door with a gloved hand. "She might be angry, if you—"

"But—"

"She's right, Mary," Matthew said gently, and nodded to their daughter. Elisabeth pushed open the door and strode delicately up the short path.

"'Evening," muttered the clerk noncommittally.

"I'm Lady Elisabeth," she said shortly, and his eyes flashed up to her in surprise. "You might have given two people a room, earlier this evening, perhaps?"

"I—er—"

"Oh, I know you have," she continued coldly. "If you could give me a key?"

"Er—" he stuttered again, fumbling in a desk drawer and finally pulling out an ancient, rusted key ring.

"Thank you," Elisabeth added, almost without thought. "And this room would be—?"

"Up on the left, mi—milady—"

She hurried up the stairs, barely avoiding tripping over her full blue coat. "Sybil?" she called, giving the door a sharp rap. She really wasn't sure she wanted to see what had happened, so she waited a few moments before placing the key in the lock.

"Sybil!" Elisabeth said again, more loudly. There was only silence, and she felt almost scared, standing alone in a small darkened hallway. She turned the key.

The room was simple and neat, a bit small for her taste. And empty.

* * *

"What do you mean, she _wasn't there?_" Mary snapped, frustrated, as the car door clicked shut behind Elisabeth.

"I mean," her daughter snapped back, "that the room was empty."

"She might be somewhere close," Anna suggested, her gaze sweeping the fields around them. "The motor's here."

"You're absolutely right," Mary agreed. "She wouldn't have gone far." She opened the door and stepped out elegantly, glaring at them all. "Do you want to find her or don't you?"

* * *

"Sybil!" Elisabeth shouted again, her voice nearly hoarse, knocking harshly on the door of a shed a short ways up the road. "_Sybil!_" She glanced back to where her parents and Anna were huddled together in the middle of the field and almost laughed aloud at how pathetic the entire scenario was.

Muffled scuffling sounds came from inside and she started in surprise. "_Sybil!_" she cried, pushing open the door and hurrying in. "Oh, dear _God_—"

"Elisabeth!" her father shouted.

"What is it?" her mother called sharply.

"Milady?"

Elisabeth quickly regained her composure and pulled her face into a scowl. "Get. Up," she ordered.

Sybil and the farmer's son both flew to their feet. Sybil's hair was a bit mussed; they had been lying on the floor side by side (fully clothed, thankfully), in the _dirt_, for God's sake…

"Beth!" the younger Crawley began, infuriated.

"How did you find us?" the man asked.

"I don't think that's any of your business," Elisabeth said coldly as the rushed footsteps of the others grew nearer.

"_Sybil!_" their mother chided, clattering into the shed. "This nonsense is ending, now. I should have known you'd take after your aunt, and—"

The stranger spoke up. "She agreed to this. She has her own mind, you seem to've forgot."

"She's perfectly welcome to have her own mind," Mary retorted, as Matthew stepped through the door. "Just—not if it leads to _rash_ and _stupid_ decisions like this. I don't even know your beau's name." She fixed the fellow with an angry glare.

"Papa—" Sybil pleaded.

Matthew cleared his throat and glanced quickly towards his wife, whose eyes flashed bitterly. "This is Jack. Drake's son, isn't that right?" He looked to the boy, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Very well," Mary said crisply, pulling out a pocketbook. "_Jack_—how much do you want?"

"Excuse me?" he demanded, rather crudely in Mary's opinion.

"If you think you have the right to—" Sybil started.

"Right?" Mary laughed coldly. "Darling, I have every right."

"No! You don't!"

"Sybil—" her father said.

"No. Don't tell me what I can and can't do!" she exclaimed, turning to the door. "Jack—we're leaving." Jack Drake picked up a small case and followed, ducking his head.

"If you're going to marry, do it in broad daylight," said Matthew desperately, fighting to keep his voice reasonable. "Don't just—_sneak_ _off_ like there's something wrong about it." His face wrinkled a bit in indignation.

Sybil paused at the threshold. "No," she said simply, and left her shocked, appalled family standing in a small shed on the side of the road.

* * *

"She's _exactly_ like Sybil," Mary sighed, exasperated, as her husband threw on his nightclothes and the sun rose, shining a little bit of light into their room.

"I seem to remember it was your idea," he said wryly. "You rather liked the name Sybil."

"Well…" she hesitated. "Do you suppose she's still Sybil Crawley? By now they might've—"

"_No._" Matthew shook his head vehemently.

"Really, Matthew—"

"She'll always be Sybil Crawley," he said tightly, staring out at the grounds. "And she'll always have a home here, Mary—"

"But she's run off with a—" she started.

"She's our daughter," Matthew argued. "And always will be."

There was a pause.

"All right," Mary said quietly, giving a resigned sigh. "I won't throw her out."

"_We_ won't throw her out," he agreed, pulling back the bedcovers and climbing in. "She's still Sybil, no matter what she's done."

"It doesn't mean I approve," she warned as she leaned into the pillows. "At all."

"Of course not. He's a farmer's son." Matthew turned over and closed his eyes, his greying hair still somehow neatly combed back.

Mary sighed again, folding her hands in her lap. "Matthew," she said suddenly.

"What?" he mumbled, barely conscious.

"What will the servants think, when we don't appear until early afternoon?" Her brow wrinkled and she tapped him on the shoulder. "We have to go down for breakfast. Because the servants would think—"

"No," Matthew muttered into the pillow.

"—and they'd smirk and laugh, and Elisabeth and—" she stopped. "She would be completely humiliated. Mama and Papa used to do that sometimes, you know. Disappear for a whole morning, locked away in their room."

"We've done that too," he replied almost incoherently, and she scowled.

"_Matthew_—"

"Well, we have. Or have you forgotten?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed reading. Probably the fluffiest thing I've written to date. Anyway, I'd really appreciate it if you left a review. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Apologies for leaving this for so long. This is the final chapter (though you might want to reread Ch. 2…). I haven't left "Fairytales", though, if you read that—there will be an update on that soon._

* * *

The next morning, both Elisabeth and her parents slept until noon. This, of course, caused a mad scramble downstairs in the kitchen as Mrs. Mason struggled to keep breakfast from going stale. The housemaids cleaned rooms that hadn't been used in years because they had nothing else to do. The butler, Barrow, snapped at everyone in sight—it was a bad day for him, he'd just received word that one of his old friends had died. He took particular satisfaction in terrorizing the ladies' maid, and took the liberty of opening the morning telegram.

_Well, how interesting,_ he thought with a smirk, resealing the envelope with the little pot of glue he kept handy for these sorts of situations.

"Lady Sybil's room was locked, Mr. Barrow," squeaked one of the housemaids. "I hope she's not freezin' to death…can I get the key from Mrs. Croft?"

"No," Thomas ordered sharply. "Don't fuss about that, just make sure the other rooms have their fires lit. It's a waste of time, anyway."

* * *

"Maybe we can't stop her," he said, his voice muffled by the covers and pillows.

"You _want_ to stop her, don't you?" she said icily, instantly awake.

"But isn't she entitled to marry who she wants?" He was too exhausted to heed the warning signs of the storm.

"No. She isn't." Mary yanked back the covers, and he pulled them to him sleepily. She rolled her eyes. "Oh, get up. You aren't that old."

"My daughter is getting married. It's justified that I should feel old and grey."

"She's getting married too young."

He opened one bleary eye. His wife was already pacing frantically. "Perhaps not. She's of age."

"They're fools. Where will they have their wedding night? In a chicken coop?"

Matthew flinched. "I'm sure they'll find an inn," he said after a moment's silence. "Have you told her…about…"

"Only some of it," she said grimly. "I'm sure that vulgar boy is more than happy to tell her what—"

"He wasn't that bad," he argued, trying to ignore the searing ache in his back. "I don't suppose you agree, but—"

"He was perfectly awful."

"She must see _something_ in him." The ache was becoming more like a pang now. "What I don't like is that they feel the need to be secretive."

"Are you blaming me?" Her voice rose to a higher octave as she whirled on him. "It isn't my fault that they've decided to run away. They could've stayed in the county, at least."

"This is no one's fault," he said, trying to deter any further speculation with a wave of his hand. "Which is why I suppose we can't be angry."

"_I'm_ angry," she exclaimed indignantly.

"Mary—" He started to sit up, but flopped backwards, wincing and gritting his teeth.

She softened. "Is it your back again?"

"It's nothing."

"That is not nothing," she replied, starting to smooth his hair back. "It must have been the sitting in that awful car all night."

His breath was laboured. "I'll manage," he said.

Mary squeezed his hand tightly, his worn wedding band pressing into her wrinkled knuckles. A layer of sweat grew upon his forehead, like condensation upon a cold glass.

"I'm going to ring for the doctor." She stood and turned towards the door. "You stay there."

Downstairs, Barrow was waiting with a telegram. She never quite got to the 'phone.

* * *

IN GRETNA GREEN STOP PLEASE COME STOP.

"She wants us to come?" Mary spat.

"There's something else happening," her husband said, carefully squinting at the paper again, from where he was still lying in bed. "Something's not right."

"You don't suppose he left? How lower-class of him."

"I think it's possible."

She sighed heavily. "So he's broken her heart. What are we supposed to do? Go and fetch her?"

Matthew frowned. "You and Beth will have to go. I won't be able to, not with my back like this. I'll only slow you down."

"Do you want us to ring you when we have her?" His wife pulled her coat around her shoulders.

"_If_ you have her."

Mary ignored this. "I'm not going to take Anna again," she declared, as she tied the laces of her leather shoes. "I think she's had quite enough for one day."

"We all have…just—promise me one thing."

She glanced up at him. "What?"

"Just—" He seemed to hesitate, passing a hand over his eyes. "Don't fly off the handle. She'll be needing rest, first."

Her eyes sharpened, as if she were grating them over a whetstone. "Tell the servants that Beth and I are in Ripon for the day, but don't make a fuss over it."

"Mary—promise," he insisted, and lifted his head up ever so slightly.

"Don't move!" she snapped. Then she smoothed the full skirt of the coat, her gaze flickering to the floor and back again. "We should be back in time for supper. Have Barrow call the doctor." Her voice was brisk, like the morning wind that seeped through the walls each day.

"I don't _need_ the doctor."

She took up her pocketbook and pressed a quick kiss to his slowly receding hairline. "I'll be the judge of that."

"But—"

"I don't give a fig about whether she's had enough sleep," his wife said, as she crossed to the door and placed her hand on the knob. "She ran away with the _farmer._"

Matthew closed his eyes and heaved a sigh as the door scraped open and then shut with a rattling click.

* * *

The brakes screamed as the car shuddered to a tentative halt at the crossing. Lady Elisabeth, shaking, repositioned her gloved hands at ten and two, looked both ways, and gently tapped the accelerator.

Her mother had her head bent in silent prayer, but her eyes flew open when they jolted forward rather suddenly, like a rabid rabbit.

Elisabeth let out an unladylike shriek when birds darted into the road. She twisted the wheel alarmingly; the car swerved before skidding to a stop on the shoulder. Her breath stopped, then quickened, and she could feel her heart pounding relentlessly. Raising her chin as her mother shot her a frustrated glare, she maneuvered the vehicle back onto the main path.

And stamped hard on the gas.

* * *

Gretna Green wasn't all that crowded, just the usual village bustle, with the clinking and rattling of cars, and the chatter of the people. The countess and her daughter were conspicuously well-dressed and aristocratic, but Elisabeth followed her mother's lead and pretended to ignore the whispers as they swept through the streets on foot (the motor having been discarded unceremoniously at the edge of town).

At midday, they found Sybil sitting alone in the alley behind the Gretna Green registrar's office, clad in athletic shoes and one of her everyday dresses (with the twenty-four buttons just slightly off-kilter—both Mary and Elisabeth cringed) reading a newspaper as if it were a perfectly normal day. "Mama," she said, lowering the paper and nodding. "Beth."

"Where's Jack?" her sister said coldly.

"With the registrar," Sybil replied. "He's seeing to the marriage license."

"With his education?" Mary let out a derisive snort.

"He can read, you know. He's not an idiot."

Mary closed her eyes briefly and tried to slow her speech. "We're here to take you home." The green was finally starting to fade from her cheeks, and she appeared positively impassive.

"Well, bully for that," Sybil snapped, tossing the _Court Circular_ aside and placing her hands on her hips.

Elisabeth frowned in consternation—Sybil had always been stubborn, from the days when they were both little girls running around Crawley House, but she almost didn't recognize the flippant woman in front of her. "You weren't asking us to come fetch you?"

"No." Her sister's face was flushed already, a brewing storm. There was a pregnant pause. "Where's Papa?"

Mary scowled disapprovingly. "His back was bothering him."

"So where is he?"

"At home."

Stamping her foot like she had when she was a toddler, Sybil made a noise of disgust and pointed to the building behind her. "I'm going to be married today," she said regally. "And he couldn't be bothered to come because of his bloody _back—_"

"Darling!" her mother exclaimed, her expression incredulous (as it had been for the past twelve hours). "Do you honestly think that we're here to see you married? To the _farmer?_"

"I'd hoped."

Elisabeth folded her arms. "You don't think that. Not really," she said in disbelief.

"I was foolish then," her younger sister retorted, eyes snapping.

"And you know how your Papa's back gets," Mary cut in. "I don't see why you have to be so selfish."

"You think _I'm_ selfish?" Sybil's posture suddenly became rigidly icy. "_You're_ the one who refuses to accept that I could possibly marry the farmer, without even giving the slightest consideration to my happiness, because—"

"Your Papa and I are _only_ thinking of your happiness."

"Then let me marry Jack!" Sybil cried, in a fit of pique. "Why won't you see that?"

Her sister glared over her shoulder at some of the leering passerby. "And live a life like this?"

"The money doesn't matter."

At that, the countess felt her patience snap into fragments and soar away from her. "But of course it matters!" she exclaimed.

"To you, maybe." Sybil tossed her head, looking every bit like a disobedient colt, which Mary found highly inelegant. "I know," she added accusingly. "I know just how much money meant to you, _Mother._ You broke his heart."

"Excuse me—sorry—what?" Elisabeth demanded, not even noticing the small crowd of whispering villagers on the main road that had begun to point to them.

"Oh, yes," Sybil said, taking self-righteous, vindictive pleasure in shaming her mother. "Beth, she turned him down when he had nothing."

"Papa?" her sister whispered, raising her gloved hand over her mouth in horror.

"I'm amazed he forgave you," Sybil said spitefully, turning on Mary.

"Now is not the time nor the place for this, Sybil."

"Mama—" Elisabeth's eyes pled with her mother's. "Is this true?"

"But it doesn't matter! Not now!" Mary snapped. "The point is, you can't just run away with whomever you please."

"You treated him like—like dirt," her younger daughter accused. "Once he lost his fortune, you gave up on him."

"Who did you hear this from?" Her hands were shuddering now, and she clasped them together in a futile effort to still them. They'd given up on this so long ago. Not that she'd forgotten, but…

"From Papa. Who else?" Sybil crossed her arms over the rumpled bodice of her dress. "Why should I try to be like you? You were such an arrogant, superficial snob, weren't you?"

"Don't speak to me in that way." Her cheeks were prickling, raw, bloodless.

"Why not?" Sybil was floating on an almighty wave of freedom now, beyond anyone's reach. "Because you didn't _raise_ me to? You damn well didn't. You just—passed me off to nurses and nannies and governesses and paid them to be my mother."

Elisabeth flinched visibly. "But—" she began.

"And do you know what he said?" Sybil continued. "Do you _know_ what Papa said to me?" She paused dramatically. "He told me to go on ahead and marry for love, no matter if it was a hall boy or a king."

A fluttering sense of betrayal seeped through Mary, much as a stain soaks through silk, and she struggled to retain her composure. "That can't be true."

"He didn't bother to mention that to you, did he?" Sybil wore a satisfied smile as she turned on her heel. "Well, if you'll excuse me. Since you aren't coming to our wedding, I'll be going now."

"No—wait—" Elisabeth pleaded. "Sybil…"

"Sybil!" Mary shouted, in vain. "You come back here. At once." Her youngest daughter was prancing away around the corner—to her fate.

"Wait!" And then Elisabeth was hurtling down the alley after her sister, heels splashing in mud puddles and sending up dust, nearly trampling a stray cat that lived amongst the rubbish and dirt. She clutched at her flowered hat, trying to keep it atop her golden knot of hair, and continued the chase as if they were young girls scampering about in the grounds of Downton. "You get back here, Sybil Crawley!"

Her sister's merry laugh seemed to echo through the streets of Gretna Green.


	4. Chapter 4

The three Crawley women raced down the main thoroughfare, each removing obstacles that presented themselves in the form of people, with different degrees of gentleness. The youngest merely darted around those in her path, while her sister pressed through with hasty apologies to the villagers she brushed aside, and the Countess of Grantham took to shoving everyone who dared to block her way. It was hardly ladylike, but she didn't care.

Sybil's joyful shrieks were soon lost in the noise of the traffic, but Elisabeth continued on blindly, her chest heaving and constricting from the toil, her feet twisting awkwardly in the high shoes. "Good God," she muttered, as she hurried past a sneering man who seemed rather content to ogle her. She did not stop until she reached the next street corner, having completely lost sight of her sister. Any _reasonable_ person would have taken a left, to loop back towards the registrar, but Sybil was no more reasonable than she was ordinary.

Elisabeth pivoted sharply to the right, gathered her jacket more closely around her, and took off at a sprint.

It was only when she reached another alley, more terrifying than the one where she'd started from, that she hesitated. In this side street, a couple was pressed to the wall in furious passion. Dear God.

"Sybil!" she shrieked, and flew down the alleyway. The two broke apart, and she found herself glaring into two befuddled, unfamiliar faces. "Sorry." And then she took off again down the street, calling her sister's name for several minutes until she reached what she thought of as the edge of town. The hem of her dress was stained almost black, her shoes were surely ruined, and strands of her blonde hair flopped into her face (having struggled free from the coiffure). She had completely lost her breath, and the air seemed to scorch her nose and chest as she stopped in the middle of the road, staring out into the nearby fields and seeing only farm animals.

At a brisk pace, trying not to appear defeated, she made her way back into the town centre, only to find her mother had gone down to the registrar's office and taken a seat in the front row. Waiting.

Elisabeth joined her in silence.

They had observed two weddings—one between a middle-aged couple, and another between a boy and a girl who looked hardly older than twelve—and the words washed over Elisabeth, sounding oddly cacophonous.

For richer or poorer…

_She turned him down when he had nothing. _

For richer or poorer…

_She treated him like dirt._

After the second nuptial, while an affable old man and his sister signed the certificate as witnesses, she swallowed and leaned over. "Was what she—Sybil—said…true?" Her voice trembled.

"I don't want to talk about it," Mary replied stiffly.

Nodding slowly, Elisabeth twisted her hands in her lap and stared down at the battered floorboards.

"Next," the registrar called. His white mustache twitched as he picked up the next certificate. "Who do we have here?"

"Jack Drake and Sybil Crawley," said his assistant.

Mary's head snapped up and she turned almost instinctively to the small doors at the back of the room. She felt the heat rush into her face, as if she had a fever.

"Bring them in."

On the arm of the farmer's son, Sybil glided down the aisle; her smile more radiant than it was triumphant. Her mother and sister both narrowed their dark eyes and gave nearly identical scowls of disapproval, and Sybil's steps faltered ever so slightly as she looked away. She bit her lip as they stopped before the registrar, Jack's eager face the very picture of happiness when he glanced at her nervously.

"Dearly Beloved," said the registrar in a flat, dull monotone. He looked rather bored. "We are gathered here today in the presence of these witnesses"—he pointed to the elderly man and woman sitting next to him—"to join these two in holy matrimony, which is commended to be honourable among all men; and therefore – is not by any – to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly – but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly."

Mary closed her eyes and whispered the last words along with the clerk. "Into this holy estate these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together – let them speak now or forever hold their peace."

She rose unhesitating to her feet, Elisabeth by her side, and her voice rang out clearly, like a bugle announcing the commencement of a battle. "I object."

"And what is your reason?" the registrar said dully. Clearly, he was used to seeing protests from concerned mothers.

Bristling, Mary pointed to her daughter, who had by now turned to stare incredulously. "She's too young."

"It says here she's twenty-one."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm her mother."

The clerk let out a groan. "Unless you can prove that one or both are underage, or attempting bigamy—"

"Mama," Sybil protested. Her voice was shatteringly sincere, and there were tears in her eyes. "Please."

"I'm her _mother,_ for heaven's sake."

"I'm sorry." He gave her a curt nod. "Have a seat, please."

"I will not!" She was chastened, but only a little. Her eyes still gleamed and her tone was as sharp as ever. "Sybil—you can't do this. We will give you a life, but"—she let out a small sigh and flinched, as if it pained her to say it—"but you can't sneak off."

Her daughter stared at her, tears threatening to spill. "I can," she said, but she stumbled in speech and swallowed quickly.

"Sybil, please—"

"Permission to proceed," said the registrar.

Mary turned desperately to Sybil one last time, but the youngest Crawley shook her head.

"Go on," said the countess, and took her seat wearily.

* * *

Sulking, Elisabeth eased her foot off of the clutch and gripped the steering wheel firmly between her hands. She did not so much as look at her mother, who was sitting in the passenger seat and fuming (with perfect posture, of course). "Where do you suppose they're going?" she said, her tone offhand and almost light.

"God knows," her mother said by way of agreement.

"Was what she said—"

Mary sighed derisively. "Do we really have to talk about that?"

"Yes." The car started down the country roads that they had taken mere hours earlier. "We do."

"You have to know," she said, trying to keep her voice calm, "that it was a different era, but that money was not the reason why I turned your father down the first time."

"But you still refused him," her daughter stated flatly, her eyes not leaving the road.

"Well, I didn't—not exactly."

"What do you mean?" Elisabeth's intonation was bordering on incredulous. "You either accepted him—which you didn't—or you said no."

Mary frowned, looking out at a farmer trudging across a field.

"Or you strung him along."

Silence.

Shaking her head, Elisabeth whispered, "God."

"That wasn't why." Her throat seemed to have dried up, but Mary forced the words out anyhow. "There was…another reason."

"What, pray tell?" Her daughter's words reeked of frost.

The countess swallowed, just as she used to do when she was six and confessing to some petty sisterly crime. "I was young. Foolish."

Elisabeth bit her lip and nodded.

"I gave my virtue, unmarried."

The Rolls Royce accelerated rather suddenly. "So all of the times you've lectured me," Elisabeth said, her voice low, "you were speaking from experience. Both you and Papa."

And at that, her mother dropped the final bombshell. "It wasn't…with your father."

The car swerved back and forth like a snake's tail. "Who?"

"It doesn't matter."

"But where is…_he_ now?"

"Dead," Mary said simply.

"What, did you kill him?" her daughter scoffed, trying to combat reality with her usually dry wit.

Another pause.

"My God."

"He died," said the mother, with as much dignity as she could. "When he was—was—in me."

"That's…"

"Your sister had it wrong, you see."

"But—" Elisabeth sputtered. "That doesn't mean you didn't turn Papa away because of the money!"

"Darling, I didn't."

"Am I supposed to believe you?" she spat, and took a sharp turn.

"You have to believe me," Mary said, her voice rising. "I'm your mother!"

"Sometimes I wonder," Elisabeth replied scathingly.

"So you're siding with Sybil now, are you?" Her mother's voice was icy.

Elisabeth didn't answer.

* * *

They had hardly handed their coats to Barrow when Mary strode upstairs, her brow knitted and her steps resounding.

"Just what did you think you were doing?" she demanded, coldly, crossing their room in an instant and looming over him. She didn't care that he was practically bedridden—he had betrayed her, he had _caused_ this, he…

"Why didn't you ring?" Matthew asked, looking up at her in utter confusion. "Where's Sybil?"

"_You _gave her the idea," she accused, her voice shaking with fury.

"I—Mary, I—"

"How dare you! She thinks I refused you because of the fortune. And Elisabeth too."

"I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding," he said, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. She did nothing to stop him.

"Worse yet," she continued, as if he had not spoken, "_you_ told her that. I never believed you capable of—"

"I told her—what? Where is she?"

"Yes, you did." Her voice was shrill. "You most definitely did. She told me what you said."

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean," Matthew insisted, a rougher edge to his voice.

Even more infuriated, she clenched her hands into fists. "I think you know damn well what I mean."

The door flew open and their elder daughter burst in, hair askew and face flushed far past rosy pink. "You should tell him, Mama," she declared.

"Oh, for heaven's sake—"

"Tell me what?" Her father was sitting up halfway, leaning heavily on his arms.

"He already knows," Mary said.

Elisabeth looked about ready to throw a pillow across the room. "But—"

"He knows," her mother said through gritted teeth.

"You didn't say—"

"I'm saying it now."

"_Where's Sybil?_" Matthew pressed, wincing as he slid his pajama-covered legs off of the bed.

There was a pause.

"Gone," his wife confessed, and glared at the floor.


End file.
